Grey all day--- rain in from the south and west. I went by the coffeeshop at the university gates to read Elizabeth Bowen's "The House in Paris" but it was too crowded to get a table and I just couldn't read at the bar. I stopped and bought fried chicken on the way home. Not so much that I wanted chicken, or wanted anything at all. Just...something to do. Maybe I had visions of eating cold fried chicken (drumsticks and thighs--- I never eat breasts or wings) while watching "Mad Men" later. I ate and then fell asleep for a couple of hours. My first uninterrupted sleep in a while.

I felt heavy and sluggish when I came to. I hadn't wanted to eat; I shouldn't be eating at all. If I were a supermodel or a leggy cachexical co-ed or a plaid-kilted slutty Dalton School girl I could've dealt with that. Done the Masturbating Mia thing and purged during orgasm. Not something anyone male can ever do, of course, and even less so at my age. Lovely wicked clever girls can experiment with sex and flirt with cachexy. The Solitary Vice is of course "empowering" for lovely girls, but it's a contemptible thing in a male. I knew that the first time I ever saw the word "wanking" used that one could just never indulge in the Solitary Vice again. You can't ever engage in something that can be described with a word that filled with derision and contempt.

Tile Foyer, Tile Foyer 2... I note that no one has left any comments/notes at either. I can never guess which entries will end up with comments/notes. But it does get harder and harder to find lovely friends who will comment, who'll engage with me on topics or write and exchange Stories or ideas. And I still have no idea what's inside 512 W. 112th St. Bob from "Twin Peaks"? Would it be like Naomi Watts going into the apartment bedroom in "Mulholland Drive"? Would the Other Melissa at kraftig_bewegt know?

The lovely Laura-Ashlee at bladeoftheknife posted a review of Fernanda Eberstadt's "Low Tide" at GoodReads. I'm glad she liked it a lot. It's a favourite book of mine--- an elegant, sad, funny, unexpected little coming-of-age novel I've loved since ever it first came out. Eberstadt wrote it when she was twenty-two or twenty-three--- a pale, ghostly, cachexical UWS girl... It's a book I so wanted to hear from Miss Lissy at emigree about; something she cited in the bibliography to her "Revolver, Dauphin" Nr. 5 'zine. I've recommended it to Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo. I really want to hear Miss Ginny's thoughts on it.

I'll never be in the Brooklyn IKEA, never see marine cranes on the Red Hook docks. But we knew that, didn't we?

No voices all weekend. No calls on either the keitai or the landline. No e-mails, no texts. Nothing. I haven't had a conversation of any kind since work on Friday. The thing in the mirror doesn't deserve calls. The thing in the mirror has no value; no girl would ever waste her time to call and flirt.

I just noticed the little Toshiba external hard drive sitting there on my table. The XHD has been there since February. I still haven't been able to use it, haven't been able to figure out how to back up my iTunes. Despite promises from lovely friends out there on the aether, no one has ever called to walk me through backing up my iTunes. So--- seven months of uselessness. I don't know why I haven't just thrown the XHD away. One more reason--- besides never being as good as, say, Miss Lissy at emigree or Laura-Ashlee at bladeoftheknife ---why I'll never have a MacBook Pro or be able to do anything technical.

A Vanished girl now on the Skinny Island writes that she wants to do a JD in International Law. I wanted to tell her that so far as I know, she can't quite do that. The JD is just a general degree, a basic law degree. She can take lots of Int'l Law classes, but it'll still just be a JD. If she wants to specialise in International Law, she'll have to take an LL.M. I want to do that, by the way. But I don't have either the money or the law school grades to do it.

Note: Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo will have her PhD in Lit soon. Will she go to law school? I know it's something she's considered.

Lovely lithe tall girls at the university coffeeshop in ultra-narrow leg hiphuggers. That leaves me bitter and sad and self-loathing. The ultra-low, ultra-skinny jeans thing is just utterly key for me. I need a lovely girl who'll dress like that for me, who'll want to dress up for the films-in-my-head, who thinks I'm worth co-ed slutwear. No one will ever be out with me again, and the one lovely girl I know who makes a point of wearing ultra-low skinny jeans will never see me in the flesh. The films-in-my-head are all dissolving: I'll never be a lover again, never have any value as a lover.

I keep hoping that Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo sometimes goes to my HighDesertSnow LastFM site and looks at my tracklists. I hope Laura-Ashlee at bladeoftheknife does that, too. I'd give a lot to think that Miss Lissy at emigree drops over from her WaterColorFire LastFM site and looks at my music. I'd like to think that some lovely clever girl might find my tracklists interesting and useful, who might think my musical tastes confer some value. I go through their tracklists, of course. I always go through bibliographies in books: books speak about other books, songs lead to other songs. And musical tastes are social statements, of course. What music one likes defines ones social styles and sexual tastes.

I do need Stories from lovely girls, and yet I can't bear to know them. I need to have my own Stories, to be able to match girls' Stories, to be as good as they are. I have to have done all the things they've done, had the same Adventures, plus my own--- else I'll never be as good as they are, never be as good as the Other Males they'd prefer by definition. I have no lovers, no value, no city, no future. I'll never be able to do the things, even the small daily things, that the girls I Obsess over do. The thing in the mirror will never have a girl who misses him, or who'll show him off to her friends, or who'll travel with him. No girl would ever take a couple of days away from classes and come visit. I'm not worth any kind of effort, never vaut un detour. I'll never do or have things that make me as valuable as the girls I fancy. I'm not even worth a phone call.

Blue-and-white faux-Ottoman tile there in the foyer of 512 W. 112th St. on Morningside Heights. If I go in--- if what's waiting for me inside is the David Lynch thing I know it is...I suppose it'll be my blood flowing back over the tiles and over the big yellow 512 on the doormat...